


Branded

by chooken



Category: Westlife
Genre: Aftercare, BDSM, Branding, Christmas, Christmas Presents, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Fluff, Healing, Light Sadism, M/M, Masochism, Ownership, Painplay, Smut, Snogging, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-24
Updated: 2017-11-24
Packaged: 2019-02-06 06:39:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12811818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chooken/pseuds/chooken
Summary: Mark wants to give a unique and special Christmas present to his master.





	Branded

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Westlife Merry Kinkmas Ficfest. My randomly generated kink challenge was 'branding'

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Mark breathes. Its a soft murmur, but firm, floating out of the boy spread languid on the table. His eyes are closed. Kian kisses them open, hands finding Mark's and bringing them in to kiss as well, running his mouth reverently along the knuckles.

“It's permanent.”

“I know.” They both know. Of course they do. Kian suspects he's not reminding Mark so much as saying it to enjoy the rush of emotion that considering it elicits. A complex overplay of love, ownership and arousal. “Want it.”

“It's going to hurt.”

“Yeah.” His eyes drift close while his lips drift into a smile. There's a small christmas tree in the window, just over his shoulder, though otherwise the room is sparse and sterile.

It had been strange, walking down the street to the small tattoo shop. It's been a rainy sort of winter so far, sleety at it's very best and Kian doubts they'll get any snow. That hasn't dampened his Christmas cheer, though, not in the slightest. There's a rush in it. The hectic hours in and out of shops and browsing on the internet; remembering last minute that they've forgotten to get a gift for Kian's second cousin or Mark's aunt. Then the quiet moments. Sitting on the living room floor and wrapping presents, Kian asking what Mark would like this year.

This, had been the answer. It's not altogether a surprise. It's come up once or twice, in the run of their relationship. Something permanent. Not like the tattoos on Kian's legs, there for design and because there's a certain thrill to the pain of it. Something altogether more personal.

It had been a slightly worrying thought. Not the permanence of it, not necessarily. He knows he and Mark are permanent. Has done since the first time he took his boyfriend over his knee. Since he bound Mark's wrists in soft rope, their hearts bound together by trust and love and the gulping, desperate power that comes with what they do together.

“Shh, lovely.” They haven't started yet, but care is always nice. Mark likes it. Before and after. Kian likes giving it. Stroking every inch of him, breathing love in his ear and letting their fingers wind together, the kisses like soft fire.

Then giving more to him. Beside the bed and the riding crop a cracking fury, back and forth while Mark howls into the pillow and toes curl and hands fist and tug against the restraints. Forcing a hot, pliant mouth down and feeling the choke, the rub of hardness against his shin while Mark tries to bring himself off, Kian's scolding an aphrodesiac in itself.

Being inside him so deep Kian thinks they've become one person, locked in a shattered embrace.

“Tell me.” Blue eyes flutter open again. “Say it.”

“Yours,” Mark murmurs. His lips are wet, testament to the nervous licking. “Belong to you.” Kian suspects he's hard, somewhere against the table, and won't punish him for it. Kian's hard too. “Keep holding my hands?”

“Got you.” He squeezes. Looks up, over Mark's shoulder to the tattoo artist behind him, the one who's been carefully ignoring their conversation. It had taken a while to find someone they both liked. Someone respectful and discreet who knew how to do this sort of thing properly. Who could safely draw with heat instead of ink. “We're good.” The girl nods, leans forward. Over Mark's exposed arse-cheek, the one Kian carefully shaved the night before, going slowly and reverently, laying cold cloth over it afterwards to stop the hairs getting ingrown. Because pain and discomfort are one thing, but there's no point making it uncessarily hard on the boy, not when he's going through enough.

He'd fucked him afterwards. Gone slow, trying to draw it out, too aware they won't be able to for a few weeks at least while Mark heals. He's looking forward to taking care of Mark, in a deliciously perverse way.

“Ready?”

“Ready.” She raises an eyebrow, and he realises it's not his consent she needs to hear. “Pet?”

“Ready.” His back arches slightly, a slow, wanting shimmy. “Ready. Fuck.” Dark eyelashes flutter, and the gasp is anticipatory. “Green light.”

“Happy with the design?” They both nod. She studies them both carefully, then pulls her surgical mask up over her mouth and nose. Mark's signed the forms anyway. All the waivers and consents and the rest of it. She leans closer, lining the brand up to the stencil on Mark's skin. Looks like a pen, almost, except for the orange glow at the tip. Not what Kian had pictured when Mark had suggested it, though he supposes it makes more sense than pressing an iron brand to his boyfriend's backside like a cow in a field.

“Starting now.” She purses her lips. Kian feels the hands in his clench and holds Mark's gaze when he smells cooking flesh.

“Ah...” His eyes clench shut. Doesn't move, though, bless him. Lip caught under his teeth and everything drawn in while Kian holds him, leaning in to press their foreheads together, noses lining up while Mark lets out a harsh sob.

“Got you,” Kian says again. “Gorgeous.” Mark's eyes open, thick with tears, though the pained smile says he wants this. Might even be enjoying it. “How does it feel, love? Is it what you wanted?”

“Hurts,” Mark croaks. Eyes roll back the way they do when Kian's teasing him, forcing him to the edge with hard punishment that isn't enough. “Kian...” It's a sigh. “Oh fuck.” Kian wants to not notice the smell, glances up to see a thin drift of smoke, her eyes narrowed above the mask. “Love you. Love you, love you...”

“Love you.” He coaxes Mark into a whining kiss, feels the tremble of lips. “Mine,” he whispers. Mark moans. “Perfect.” Another swallowing moan. “You're hard, aren't you?” Knows Mark is. “Little slut, getting off on this.”

“You're not?” It comes out strained, but Kian can see him settling into the pain, the way he does himself when the shock of the tattoo needle becomes a rattling background hum.

“I'm so hard.” He kisses Mark again. Slow kisses that suck, then part, clinging and separating, over and over again, both of them feeding off each other while Mark forces himself still. “Keep thinking about it. How it'll look when it heals.” Mark stretches for his mouth again. Kian obliges, feels a tongue dart out and caress his. “Will you like it? Feeling it for weeks? Months, maybe?” Mark's flush says he's looking forward to it. “Seeing it in the mirror when it's healed? I'll wait until it's still tender, then I'll paddle your arse so hard you feel every line.”

“Yes...” Their grips separate to let strong arms cling around his shoulders. Kian holds him. Hears blissful agony in every panting breath. “Kian...”

“Opening presents on Christmas morning and you can't sit properly on the floor.” He's whispering it, urging Mark through it. He doesn't take harsh words well, but soothing encouragement always helps. “Christmas dinner with our families. What are you going to tell them when they ask what I got you?” Oh, he likes that idea. Their families don't know about this part of their relationship, and Kian knows part of Mark likes it, feeling like he's getting away with it. He's a kinky fucker like that.

“How much longer?” Kian glances up. Can't stand, not with the two of them tangled together, but she's heard the question and gives him a nod. He doesn't ask how much else she's heard.

“Not much longer.” Searching kiss on his chin. “How's it look?”

“Good.” It's muffled through the mask. “Doing really well.”

“You hear that? Doing really well.” Kian feels a rush of pride that she's talking about his Mark. His beautiful, sweet pet. “Going to treat you so well tonight. Anything you want.” She reaches out, switches off the machine on the trolley, puts down the cauterising pen. “Done?”

“All done.” The mask comes down to hang around her chin. “Want to look?”

“Is it right?” Mark clings to him harder. Kian lets him, for a moment, then extricates himself with a quick peck, stepping around the table to peer at the result.

“Oh, love...” He rests his hand carefully on a lower back beaded with sweat, feels it tense under his palm. Looks finer than he expected, narrow sepia lines edged with stippled red. “That's beautiful.” Feels Mark heave, a relieved sob. “I love it.

Wishes he could reach out. Trace the lines with his thumb, but knows that won't be possible for a while. The delicate K and M interlinked. It's better than he could have ever thought.

They stay for a while. She gives them space. Partly because they're both hard, and also because Mark isn't ready to move yet. He looks faint. She puts a fan on before she leaves them, and it sweeps away the smell as though it hadn't even been, though Kian does suspect he won't be having barbecue for a while.

“Tired,” Mark whispers. Kian is sat at his head, their hands clasped. He knows the feeling. The swelling burst of endorphins during a tattoo, the drained, nauseous feeling afterwards, coming back down like he's had too much coffee and not enough sleep. “Want to see it.”

“Soon.” Sweaty hair clings to his hand as he rakes it back from a pale forehead. “Thirsty?”

Mark is. Kian lifts the glass, navigates the straw to pursed lips. Just some cool water with a bit of sugary juice in it, but this is part of the pleasure, Mark helpless and needing his care.

“Thanks.” Blue eyes drift shut, and Mark sleeps.

It's an hour later, Mark moving gingerly in tracksuit bottoms, that they make it to the car. Kian helps him. The wound has been cleaned, covered with antiseptic cream, and wrapped up. They have instructions. Kian feels a bit like he's come from the vet, ready to care after a sick pet. It's not entirely wrong. Mark lays down on his stomach in the back, their eyes catching at every stop through the rear-view mirror.

Mark rests poorly that night. Kian stays up with him, soothing and talking quietly. He changes the dressing, brings him pills for the pain. Feeds him and holds him and when the sun comes up Mark is asleep. Kian passes out as well, too overwrought with emotion to do anything else, until they're both woken six hours later by Mark whimpering and trying to struggle to the bathroom.

He helps. When it's done he helps clean it and change the dressing again. It's angry, now, sharp red lines that are starting to close over, the blistering muddying the edges. Still, despite Mark's discomfort there's something in the slowness of the next few days, in hours spent in front of the television, Kian cross-legged on the floor so Mark can stretch out across the long sofa on his stomach, wanting to be within reaching distance in case Mark needs him.

It's a strange reversal. Waiting on Mark's every need. _Wanting_ to, because maybe this has finally tipped it. The delicate balance of push and pull they've kindled over the last six years. He suspects that if there was a way for one of them to win, Mark has done it.

Kian is so proud of him.

  
  


*

  
  


It's three weeks later, Mark moving much easier and the lines resolving themselves past messy agony, the scabs almost gone, when he's woken by lips on his ear and a hand trailing down his stomach.

“Please,” Mark mumbles. His head's down, doe eyes up and peering beseechingly while Kian tries to shake off the fog of sleep. “Please, I...” He's hard. Guiltily so.

“Did you start without me?” Kian croaks. Soft cheeks flush. “It's early, love.” He scrubs his eyes. Two days before Christmas and the cold's set in properly now, nowhere better to be than cuddled up in bed. “What can you handle?”

“I... I don't know,” Mark admits. “Just... I miss...” His eyes close on a shudder when Kian's knuckles brush his cheek, hooked clumsily around from where his arm is wrapping Mark's shoulders. “Want...”

“Tell me.”

“Want you to use me.” It's steady. Kian looks down, sees determined eyes.

“You're not ready.”

“My mouth, use my mouth.” He's humping against Kian's thigh now, a slow roll that's trying it's best to be innocuous but isn't even close to managing it. “Choke me. Pull my hair. I don't care. I just...”

“Jesus,” Kian groans, rolling on top of him. He's pliant beneath Kian's weight. Hips lift, catching his growing erection, the throbbing centre of his arousal. Kisses Mark hard and swallows hiccuping moans as they grind, fingers in his hair and both of them rutting mindlessly like teenagers, Kian's control fragile after too long without.

He yanks Mark back with a fistful of dark hair. Ragged jerk, exposed throat and he bends to bite, tastes the rumble of pain and want.

“You going to hurt me?” Mark whispers. Kian bites down harder. Lets go with a soothing lick.

“You're damn right I am.” Sits up over rolling hips, knees pinning his love to the bed. Flushed and soft and eyes dark. Watchful while Kian runs fingers down his chest, finding the shape of him. The beat of his heart. “Say it.”

“I belong to you.” The way his head tips back is practically cathartic. More release than an orgasm after so long without. “I'm yours. Do anything to me. I trust you.” He wants to touch himself. Kian does it for him, trailing his palm down the inside of a long thigh, back up to settle in the sticky space between balls and inner thigh, thumb stroking over the still-loose hang of his sac. Tugs a little harder, just to make him whine.

“You can always trust me,” Kian promises, lifting his hips. Mark moans as the pressure lessens. “Turn over.”

He does. Obedient. The dressing is more to keep it clean and dry now than for safety, and Kian peels the edge up carefully, smiling at the first peek of raised lines. They're closed now, tender. Pinch when Mark moves wrong, but the first indication of what it will look like in a month's time when they've stopped being a virulent pink.

“Lovely.” He bends. Lets his tongue trace them and feels the shudder. Heaving gasps of arousal hitching every breath. Ignores the faint taste of antiseptic to stud kisses over ever line, every curl of the letters. Breathing hot over wet skin, sure it's right when Mark shivers. Moans. Kian thumbs over a head forced down against the sheets, purpling and straining against his touch. “Light.”

“Green.” Mark swallows. “Sore, but it doesn't...” Full-body flinch when Kian presses harder. “Oh,” he pants. “Green.” His cock is rubbing back and forth as he shifts, leaking a bead of stickiness that tags to the sheets, stringing a pipette of clear fluid that stretches then breaks.

Kian presses harder. Feels the resistance of muscle and flesh.

“Fuckinghellgreen.” The sheet bunches in clawed hands. “Green. Ah...” Kian bites his lip. Wants to push this slow, not overload the boy, but Mark is _taking_ it, despite the healed blisters and reddened scars. “Kian...!”

He's just scraped the very tip of his nail down the spine of the K, feather light.

“Pet?”

“G-green.” Leaking steadily now. Kian kisses the head, embraces the breathless sob muffled in the pillow. “Green.” Harder. Digging just enough to dent the raw scar. “Green. Fuck. Jesus...” He presses, slow and firm, increasing the sharp pressure of his fingernail, teeth scraping the rim of Mark's cock accidentally-on-purpose, just to hear the barely-contained growl. “Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. Oh...”

“I'll stop.”

“No ngggnnnn...”

“Love...”

“Green... ah!” He seizes, hips somehow moving despite being rigid on the bed. “G...yellow,” he blurts, when Kian presses a little harder. Sobbing. Needs it slower but not stopped. Not yet. And Jesus, Kian isn't sure if it's sanitary yet to come all over that raw brand, isn't at all ready to take the risk, but he _wants_. Needs. Takes himself in hand instead and administers a few quick, relieving strokes, mouth still suckling Mark's cock through spread thighs, the taste a flood in his mouth.

Back to gentle. Fingertip-light. Mark relaxes. Pushes back, searching Kian's tongue.

“How do you feel?”

“Hurts,” Mark whispers. Knows he has to be honest if Kian asks, because there's no point without honesty. “Want more.”

“How much more?”

“I don't know. Just... more. I...” There's the slick whisper of him licking his lips.

“Will you come if I keep going? Just from the pain?”

There's a thoughtful silence while Mark considers it.

“Do... you want me to?” he says finally. Kian looks up, a possessive flush of arousal filling him when he sees cautions blue eyes, fingers still clenching white sheets.

“Could you?” Another thoughtful silence. He climbs up, kisses the back of a long neck, mapping muscle and softness with his lips as he journeys down.

“Yes.” It's a whisper as Kian nears Mark's shoulder. “I could. Would. If you asked.” His hand entwines with Kian's free one, the sheets released when Kian takes up the hold. “I'm so fucking turned on,” Mark sighs. “Kian...”

“There.” His other hand caresses marked skin, rough over plump flesh. “Light.”

“Green.” Their eyes lock. Kian shifts, slightly to the side so he doesn't rest all his weight on Mark's arse, so he has room to move. The kiss is easy. Comfortable. Like coming home and soft pyjamas and a warm fireplace and crap on the telly. Kian squeezes slightly. “Green.”

Gentle scrape, all five nails in a dragging tease. Mark's breathing lurches.

“Green.”

“Harder,” Kian annouces. Does it, a slow, shallow claw that makes Mark moan and twist on the bed, trapped under Kian's weight. “Harder.” Nails digging. Has to be careful now, not to break the skin or ruin the design. “You can take it,” he promises. Mark doesn't disagree. “Want you to take it.”

“Kian.” Mark is shaking. Almost sobbing but not quite. “Harder. Green. Fuck. Harder. I...” His hips roll. “Oh _Jesus.”_

“Not yet, lovely. Soon. Not yet.” Mark agrees, quivering. Kian squeezes his cheek again, hears a sharp cry he didn't quite expect.

“Ye-yellow...” His hand stills.

“Because it's too much or because you're close?”

“Too... both... I...” His hips arch. Dark cock bobbing back upwards by it's own weight, trapped thick and hard against his belly when he settles again. “Kian.” He's pushing back, searching Kian's grip. He won't red light. Almost never does.

“Shh...” Kian sits up. Swings a leg over and off, then tugs Mark onto all fours, gentle with a hand on his nape. The boy goes, thighs trembling on the bed. When Kian sits cross-legged in front of the pillows it doesn't take much to guide Mark back down again, pulling him in like a horse to a trough.

The swallow is teasing poison. A long swoop of his mouth, sucking full lips back up. Takes half in with the first mouthful, almost all in the second one. Kian's eyes roll shut. Too hard. Too long, without that sinful tongue and hot throat, gulping around him while they set a pace, Mark's whimpers singing up his skin.

“Good boy,” Kian mutters. The moan hums around him. He can just see the brand, faint lines on Mark's upraised arse. It's a stretch, but when he reaches out he can just make it with the tips of his fingers, feels Mark hunch in obligingly until Kian can spread a palm over it, the whimpers going suddenly high-pitched when he lifts up, swats gently down.

It's careful. A tap, more than anything. The suck goes harder, faster, and when he looks down there's nothing in hungry eyes that suggest it isn't wanted.

“Again.” Kian announces. Mark's eyes squeeze shut in anticipation. This one goes a little harder, and when he feels the choked groan echoing the slap he knows he's done the right thing.

He's careful, as he pats careful smacks onto Mark's arse. Despite his pleasure, despite how close he's getting himself. This is for Mark, and Mark is watching him, blinking heavily, squeezing his eyes shut every time Kian announces another one.

A hand clutches at his ankle. He hesitates for a moment, thinks it might be a sign to stop, but when he looks down again Mark's eyes are thoroughly blissed out, Kian's balls and thighs flooded with the helpless drool that's been steadily dripping from his pet's swollen mouth.

He scrapes the brand with his fingernails. Choked cry. Feels his core tighten in, everything suggesting that there's a time limit to the rhythm of that hot sheath around his cock.

He pulls out. Mark seems displeased about it, but it isn't really his decision. Kian drags him up instead, uncrosses his legs and pulls him into a hard embrace, feels them press together, Mark hard and leaking, Kian sticky with saliva.

“Shh...” He bites at Mark's ear. Mark's hips are moving, jackhammering while Kian finds the brand again and runs his hand over it. “Five smacks. They'll get harder. Safe out if it's too much.” The panting against his ear gets harsher, more breathless. “On the last one, you come for me.” The moan says he's not sure if he can. “One.”

It's barely a tap. Mark whimpers, nuzzles Kian's ear.

“Harder,” he mutters. Kian smirks.

Brings down his hand again.

“Ah...” Mark lurches forwards, pushing them together. Kian's other hand slips down. Catches up thick flesh and pulls them both together, starting a stroke. “Love you.”

“Love you too.” It's properly hard this time. Mark's writhing, pushing into his hand, licking at his ear and neck as though he's trying to ground himself. “Two left.” He feels Mark's cock twitch in his hand. “Hold it, love. Don't lose it early.” The arms around his shoulders tighten. Mark's bracing himself.

Maybe it's cheeky, but Kian takes half a second to dip a finger down, jabbing just past the wrinkled pucker of Mark's arsehole. The cry is it's own reward. The slap comes in quick succession.

“Ah... oh fuck.” Mark's thighs tremble against his. “Kian. Oh.” He's tensing. Too close. Trying to hold back. Kian catches his mouth in a hard kiss.

He brings his hand down hard. It's a good smack, the kind that resonates on the air, a sharp crack that shivers up through Mark and out in a sobbing cry, Kian's hand moving faster between them, chasing his own end almost as much as Mark's.

“Fuck...” Broken, whimpering squawk and that's it, the flood of him. Thick ropes that spurt, squelching hot between them while Kian holds him in, hand moving up and around his shoulders to cradle him, other one easing him through it until, with a last shuddering jerk, he stops, gasping into Kian's neck.

He barely needs any guidance to back up, take Kian's soaked cock in. Moaning and fluid and his arms around Kian's waist in an almost tender embrace.

It doesn't take much. Mark swallows it. Kian and himself. When he's done he lays his head on Kian's thigh, eyes closed and a sweet smile on his face, chest still heaving away the last of the effort.

Kian strokes his hair until they're both calm.

“Okay?”

Mark nods. Doesn't open his eyes. He looks almost unconsious, flopped on the sheets and his arse red from the strikes, making the lines of the brand seem almost pale by comparison.

“Really good,” he breathes. Kian smiles fondly. Can't help it. “Gonna need some pain pills in a bit.”

“I'll take care of you,” Kian promises, and waits for him to recover.

  
  


*

  
  


The house is full of the smell of cooking meat when they arrive. Kian almost baulks. Has a moment of deja vu that settles wrong until Mark gives him a knowing smile and he realises they've both been thinking the same thing.

Kian's not hard. He's really not. Not at Mark's parent's house on Christmas afternoon, the giggle of children audible from the other room.

They shuffle through a tornado of hugs, kisses, and seasonal well-wishing. When Kian finally extricates himself from a cousin who's obviously started on the sherry early it's to find Mark smiling at him, two mince pies already held in one hand. Kian takes one gratefully

“Have you had a nice morning?” Marie asks

“We have, yeah.” Waking up in his old bedroom, tangled in each other. Opening presents under the Christmas tree and jostling with his brothers and sisters and the growing brood of smaller Egans they seem to be infiltrating the greater Sligo area with.

“Get anything nice?”

“Just had a low-key one this year,” Mark interrupts. “We're looking at renovating the house soon anyway, so we figured...” Kian kisses his cheek to stop it turning into a ramble, gets a guilty smile. Wonders if Mark's thinking about the early Christmas present he gave Kian as well, the sweet matching lock-and-key pendants he'd had specially made.

Kian hadn't expected it. Had felt his eyes fill with tears as he'd tenderly latched Mark's at the back of his neck, watched the lock disappear beneath his boyfriend's collar when he'd buttoned his shirt and turned around, smiling shyly.

He resists the urge to put his hand on Mark's branded arse in a roomful of family. Puts it in his pocket instead and squeezes the square box there. The other Christmas present, meant for later when they're all sat at dessert and he's got a glass of wine's courage in him.

“Love you,” he murmurs, when they're finally alone again. Runs his hand fleetingly over Mark's arse and sees a twinkle in blue eyes.

“Love you too.” Mark kisses his cheek. “Starving. Can I have another mince pie?”

“Go on then,” Kian chuckles. Their hands link. “Yours.”

“Yours,” Mark echoes. “Merry Christmas.”

Kian snorts and drags him toward the kitchen.

 


End file.
